


The Proxy

by thequeergiraffe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Buggering and dreams of buggering, Couch Sex, Eavesdropping, F/M, Gratuitous mention of Doctor Who, I don't know why I wrote this honestly, John you sly dog, M/M, Multi, POV shift in the second chapter, Sherlock you little devil, Weird smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:13:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's improbable that John is dating Lana/Louise/Lily just because she looks like Sherlock. It's improbable that he's suddenly so keen on trying "that thing" because of Sherlock, and it's improbable that he thinks about Sherlock when he wanks.</p><p>But it's not impossible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously...I don't know what happened here. I posted this on FF with a sort of half-hearted, vague description but oddly enough it got a reasonably decent reaction so. Yeah. Fuck it. Enjoy, I suppose.
> 
> Britpicked by verymoderate, who cheerfully corrects Americanisms in smut without so much as a virtual snicker.

John's newest girlfriend is taller than him, with pale skin and wild dark hair, and I'm finding it difficult to continue to ignore the data that's being constantly thrust upon me. He brings her home one night (I've deleted her name- Lisa? Lina? Louie?) and I eye her, noting the boring receptionist job that makes itself evident in her fingernails, the two cats (one male and ginger, one female tabby), the cigarette habit she is failing to kick (and which John is politely pretending not to know about), and the bland quality of her banter with something like loathing. I'm glad when he finally whisks her away to his bedroom, and I wait a careful three minutes, forty-five seconds before ascending the stairs myself (avoiding the creaky fourteenth step with practiced ease).

I still my breath and press my ear to the door. It isn't much, but from the small rustles of fabric and occasional gasps I can work out the scene in my mind with relative accuracy. They're "snogging", as John likes to term it, with the girl on her back and John above her. I can hear the exact moment he slips his hand up her ugly secondhand skirt. Their activity suddenly takes on a frenetic quality; clothes hit the ground rapidly, the bed squeaks with their movement, the gasping increases.

"Turn over," John growls, and I'm surprised to find myself reacting physically. I'm aware that my interests in John extend beyond those of platonic friendship, but simple lust has always seemed so banal, so exceedingly carnal and dull, that I'm intrigued to discover I'm enjoying the feeling. I can hear the girl sit up, go to her knees. This isn't how I pictured John engaging in sexual activity (the fact that I  _have_ pictured John in such a situation bothers me immensely) and I spin this new piece of data around in my head for a moment. In my mind, John is a tender lover, gentle, with a preference for the missionary position and a great deal of "foreplay". The John of reality seems much more gruff and hasty, then, by comparison. I don't spend long on this line of thinking, though, because I'm drawn back by the noises John is making. I know almost everything about John, and I know that when he watches pornography and masturbates he is near silent, only huffing the occasional breath from between gritted teeth (a habit I suspect he has brought home with him from Afghanistan, but one that he undoubtedly picked up, initially, at uni). Ignoring the slap of flesh on flesh and the obscene, throaty noises of the girl, I can hear John panting, gasping, letting out a rare moan and a very infrequent, hushed, " _Yes_."

"Fuck," John says, and the movement comes to an abrupt stop. Obvious: rapid, repetitive movement is hard to sustain; I imagine he's slipped out. I expect the pace to resume immediately, but instead the pause grows and suddenly John suggests, in a rather sly tone, "Might we try that thing this time round?"

It doesn't take much to deduce that this isn't the first time John's suggested "that thing" mid-coitus; the noise the girl (I say girl, of course, but it's hardly a fair description of this woman: thirty-seven years old; lives in a decent flat that she claims as her own but which, in reality, belongs to her mum; two failed engagements and she's trying to tell herself that John is The One when all three of us are aware that he clearly is not) makes in response is both is both amused and annoyed. "You can't be talked down, can you?" she asks, breathless.

John's laugh sends a strange shiver down the length of my spine. "Ex-army, love." I can hear him give her rump a little slap, and my face goes warm. "Once I've got a target in my sights…"

"Mm-hmm." The bed creaks; she's turning over. "I told you, my ex at uni put me off it. I mean, John: it hurt like you can't imagine."

My eyebrow lifts. What is he suggesting? A more thorough spanking? (I'm not blushing; it's warmer up here. Simple science.) John has a smile in his voice as he murmurs, "Ah, but I'm a doctor. Surely I'll be more gentle than some sodding schoolboy?"

Laura/Louise/Lana sighs. "Well…it's kind of dirty, too, innit? I mean…you know…"

"No dirtier than anything else, really." I like John's tone; it reminds me of the one he uses when he wants me to eat, or sleep, or tidy the flat. "Sex is sex, right?"

"Hmph."

"We don't have to," John says, not quite resigned.

"Maybe another time, baby? I just…I really need to think about it." I can tell from her tone that she's finished discussing the matter (which I've decided must be anal sex, though I don't understand why heterosexual couples partake in the act when there's a perfectly serviceable hole just above- or below, I suppose, depending on the position- the one in question) and apparently John knows she's not budging because he drops the issue, instead doing something that makes her laugh loudly.

"Get back on your knees, miss," John barks, but he's using his playful voice. "Hop to it."

"Been at work all day, pet," the girls sighs. "Can't we do it lazy-like? I'll just lie back and…" Something in his expression must give her pause, because she says, with the faintest hint of frustration, "What? C'mon, I'm well spent here! It's not like we're teenagers, mm? Give a girl a rest."

John yawns, which does not seem at all congruous with sexual excitement. "Right. Well. If you're spent, we could call it a night." It's obvious that he's only suggesting this out of politeness, but the girl sighs again and mumbles, "Yes, that could be nice. Mind if I kip here?"

"No, that's…fine. Fine." The bed groans; the sound of the weight coming off it makes me think John must have just stood. And…yes, I can hear him pacing over to get his dressing gown from the hook on the door. We're only inches apart, now, and I know I should dash downstairs, but something compels me to stay. "You go ahead and get some sleep. I've got some work left to do for Sherlock-"

At my name, the girl laughs without a trace of joy. "Of course! Of course you do. Never mind that it's my night, never mind that I have to  _claim_  a night and even still you sometimes run off on cases-"

"Don't start that again." John steps away from the door. "We've had this conversation. I thought you understood how important the work is to me."

_The work._  Even the girl realises how feeble that sounds, because she laughs again and says, her voice a little shrill, "I know there's  _something_ damn important to you, and I don't think it's the bleeding work."

"Just what are you getting at?" I like this tone, too; it's John's  _back off_ voice. I've noticed that it only ever comes out when I'm involved and he feels I need protecting.

"You know exactly what I'm getting at," she snipes, and I can hear her getting out of bed. "I can't deal with this, John. I can't…" She's getting dressed rapidly. "Call me when you're  _actually_ single, okay? Because I know perfectly well that I can't compare with Sherlock bleeding Holmes."

The door pushes open so suddenly that I'm almost struck by it. I hunch up in the corner behind it, willing my breath into absolute silence, as John pads out on to the landing (the girl already pounding down the steps, trainers untied- I can hear the click of her laces as she goes) and calls, "Lucy? I…" The door to the flat slams with a vibrating ring, and John sags his weight against the door, sighing. "Christ." I'm trapped in the triangle of space between the door and the corner of the landing as John leans on the door, his breathing slow and deep. Eventually he says, rather sharply, "No. No way, John Watson; that is a terrible idea." I want desperately to ask him what his terrible idea is, but before I can debate the merits of him getting stroppy over me eavesdropping he lifts up from the door and yanks it closed behind him, the sudden darkness of the landing making me blink.

I stare at the door for a long moment, the words still lingering on my lips:  _What is your terrible idea, John? What is it?_  But I already know. When the impossible is eliminated, whatever remains- however improbable- must be the truth. It's improbable that John has romantic feelings for me.

But it isn't impossible.

 


	2. Chapter 2

This is probably the least satisfying wank I've ever had in my life.

My grip is firm and my strokes are steady, but there's no relief in sight. I can still hear Lucy's footsteps banging down the stairs in my mind, her parting words fresh in my memory. No doubt the great Holmes had already deduced the reason for her hasty exit. Fuck, no, don't think about him.

I add a half-twist to my rhythm and try to think about Lucy, which is probably a little weird considering we've almost certainly just broken up but, well, considering my room still smells like sex and my cock's still damp from being inside her…I think I can be forgiven this once. Never again, though; I learned early on in life that wanking over ex-girlfriends is a bad idea.

Okay, Lucy. Those dark curls, that slender neck. Good, yes, but I'm sure I've got her shoulders wrong. They should be much thinner, shouldn't they? And the musculature is wrong, too. The muscles I'm picturing are thick, solid, God I want to touch them-

No, no. Moving on. My mind's eye moves down Lucy's back, to a waist that's a touch too thick and hips that are a sight too narrow. Everything's wrong. Even her arse is wrong, not plump and fleshy like a woman's but hollowed in like a man's and  _fuck it all_ I'm thinking about Sherlock, I know I'm thinking about Sherlock, my  _cock_ knows I'm thinking about Sherlock because it's finally starting to pulse and-

"Shit!" Great. Fantastic. On top of wanking to first my ex-girlfriend and then my male and practically psychic flatmate, I've now managed to make a mess all over the floor because I was somehow startledby my own damn orgasm and didn't catch it all in time. Christ.

I huff out a breath that might have been a laugh if this all wasn't so pathetic and wipe my hand on the side of the bed I don't sleep on (sheets need a washing anyway, no big deal). The mess on the floor gets cleaned up with a discarded sock. I tug on my sleep clothes and amble down to the bathroom, wash my prick, hands, face, and hands again in that order, before wandering through the front room to the kitchen. Sherlock, for reasons unknown, is laying face-down on the floor in front of the fireplace, his arms lying limply at his sides.

"Tea?" I ask, wondering if he'll know from the inflection of my voice or some other random tell that I just came all over my bedroom floor thinking of him.

"Mmf," Sherlock says by way of answer, his face still pressed against the floorboards. That can't be comfortable but I leave him to it, glad that he isn't looking at me whatever the reason. I fill the kettle, flip the switch, take down the mugs, wipe them out. Routine. Nice, boring routine. Nothing better for settling one's nerves than the process of tea-making, I've always said. (Although that line of thinking takes my mind back to Soo Lin Yao and the museum, to my worry for Sherlock and my guilt for the girl, and maybe it's best I just focus on the bloody tea for now, hmm?)

Tea bags; milk; sugar. I set everything up patiently, methodically. A flitted glance tells me Sherlock is still lying on the floor, apparently unmoved. I take down a box of digestives (chocolate ones, thank you Mrs. Hudson) and dump a few of them on to a plate. "Sherlock?" I say, pouring the heated water over the teabags. "Do you want to watch some telly?"

"Eleven," Sherlock replies, his head turned a little so that his voice isn't muffled.

"How-" I shake my head. "Fine." Sherlock is very particular about the Doctor Who he is willing to sit through. He doesn't like Nine's ears, and David Tennant puts him off entirely. Anything older than that is "ridiculous, kitschy, and unwatchable" (his words; definitely not mine) but- and he'll never admit this, I know, but it's true- he's oddly fond of Eleven. I've seen the contemplative looks he gives fish fingers sometimes and I'd bet my right thumb he's wondering how they'd taste with custard. Sherlock acts like he's above it all but I think I'll make a Whovian out of him yet. "Put it on, will you?" I ask, taking the tea bags out and chucking them in the bin.

"No," Sherlock answers, sliding up from the floor and flumping into the kitchen. He gives me a sort of brooding look and snatches his mug from the counter before returning to the sitting room, this time falling on to the couch with limbs flailed, somehow not spilling a drop of tea.

I take my mug and the plate of biscuits and follow him, setting the food down on the table and queuing up the DVD. "What's got you in a strop?" I ask, fiddling with the remote control. I'm not  _that_ old, I should be able to handle this, but all that time in Afghanistan has put me a little behind the technological curve and-

Sherlock snatches the remote from me with a sigh and puts on "The Beast Below" as I settle down on the sofa beside him. We rearrange the furniture pretty regularly, to Mrs. Hudson's chagrin, and this week the sofa has wended its way towards the telly. Giving me another dark look, Sherlock sips his tea and then sniffs, "I'm not in a strop. I am  _fine_."

He's clearly not but I've got enough going on and I'm not going to push him, so I settle back and admire Amy Pond in silence. This is another Sherlockism: he refuses to watch the episodes in proper order. He claims that a show with the central theme of time travel shouldn't be affected by something as typical and ordinary as plot chronology. Considering I've already seen them all, I just go with it. If he wants to be lost, that's on him.

The title music comes up and I'm humming along almost cheerfully under my breath when Sherlock's feet suddenly make a forceful impact with my thigh. His toes curl in, digging and shoving simultaneously, and I find myself jarring quite uncomfortably against the arm of the sofa, tea sloshing warmly into my lap. "What the-" I swear under my breath and set the mug down on the table forcefully before grabbing his ankles and shoving them. His feet come right back, kicking me roughly. "Sherlock!"

The man in question looks at me defiantly. "I want to lie down," he says, sounding every bit the brooding five-year-old. His arms are crossed over his chest and his eyes are dark and Christ, he's gorgeous when he's being imperious.

I clear my throat. "Too bad," I say, aware that my voice is a little gruffer than normal and unable to do anything about it. "You can share the sofa like a civilized human being, Sherlock."

"Or?" Impossible-coloured eyes light up mischievously.

"Or," I answer, blood warm, "I'll shove you off this sofa and you can resume lying on the floor while  _I_ stretch out all over the cushions."

Sherlock scoffs, but there's still a playful glint in his eyes. "I'm sure that would go exactly as planned," he says, grinning, and then he stretches his legs out and sets his feet unceremoniously in my lap. "Better?" There's something sly about the look on his face.

"Mm," I answer, incapable of speaking. His feet are shifting minutely and one of them rubs, sole-down, across my prick. I grab his ankles again, maybe a little more roughly than I intend to. "Stop fidgeting," I manage, my voice embarrassingly hoarse.

Sherlock sighs and settles back against the sofa, for all intents and purposes focused entirely on the show. I don't have the slightest idea what's happening on the telly; Sherlock's feet are warm and won't lie still, constant shifting and grazing and making me flinch. Thank God I just came twenty minutes ago or I'd already be half-hard. I have got to get his feet out of my lap, and soon…but how can I remove them without making the reason unsettlingly clear?

A little shift and the press of his heel against the head of my cock makes me groan, and then play off the groan with a stretch. Fuck! This is not working. What do I do, what do I do…

Just then, Sherlock's feet withdraw. I look at him to see if he's realised what I already know (that I'm a sick bastard, half in love with a lunatic and going mad from just the barest of touches) but Sherlock's just stretching, his T-shirt riding up his stomach and forcing me to look away. He sighs and slumps over, but not the way he was lying before. He's reversed himself and his head falls to my thigh, warm and solid and breathtaking.

We don't do this. We're not Holmes-and-Watson, crime-fighting-during-the-week, cuddle-on-the-weekends duo. There is absolutely no reason Sherlock Holmes should be lying with his head on my lap and his fingers dancing across my knee. None whatsoever.

And yet, here we are.

Sherlock yawns and fidgets, his curls tickling even through my thin cotton pj's. I don't even realise my hand is frozen in the air until Sherlock sighs and takes it in his own, pushing it into his curls. What are we doing? I don't even know, but my fingers start raking through his dark hair without waiting for permission from me. Sherlock makes a little contented humming sound and resumes watching telly, presumably, although honestly he could have turned the thing off and I wouldn't have noticed. His hair is soft, softer than I'd expected, and it smells a bit like my cheap shampoo and his incredibly expensive conditioner. It's warm, too, and I have the sudden and very strong urge to push my face into his hair and just breathe in the scent of him. "This is nice," I say hoarsely, because it is. I can feel Sherlock nod, my fingers still wound in his hair and his cheekbone pressing into my thigh.

I let my hand slide a little lower, just to the nape of his neck, and-  _Jesus Christ_ \- he arches his neck a little, exposing white flesh and the rapid beat of his pulse. My throat goes tight and my fingers tremble just a little as I slide them along his skin, pausing with my fingertips pressed against the drumming vein just under his jaw. Christ, his heart is racing. What are we doing?

Sherlock turns a bit in my lap, the back of his neck settling against my thigh and his eyes locking with mine. The motion causes my hand to slide over his Adam's apple and settle on his throat; I move my fingers back up his neck, ghosting a touch along his jaw and cupping his cheek, my thumb briefly brushing his lower lip. And God, his lips part at that, and- "Sherlock," I say, my voice far too deep and husky to hide what I'm thinking, "what are we doing?"

"Watching telly," Sherlock answers, his tone casual but his voice just as rough as mine (and  _fuck_ , that's too much, knowing that he's affected by this for all that he's pretending otherwise). His eyes are dark and there's a hint of a flush at the base of his throat, but for a moment he almost looks stroppy again and asks, "Unless you'd rather be doing something else?"

"No," I say, too quickly. "God, no." I swallow hard, my hand stroking back down his face and to his neck. "Only…"

Sherlock sits up suddenly, sliding up on to his knees and grabbing my shoulders. "Don't think, John," he says, very seriously. "I'm much better at thinking than you are and I've already considered every aspect of this, weighed the costs versus the benefits, debated every possible outcome." He leans forward, his face inches from mine but his eyes still intensely focussed on my own. "This is the conclusion I reached." And then, impossibly, he closes the distance between us, his eyes falling closed at the last second, and kisses me. His lips are full-  _Christ_ \- and so warm and soft, but the kiss is a little clumsy until I take charge of it. I slide my hand back into his hair and sit up a little, pressing back against him firmly, feeling each shaky breath he lets out as a warm flutter against my own skin.

"Fuck," I gasp, pulling him closer. I never even dreamed of this, not really. Never let myself. This was never a possibility, or so I thought.

"I thought we could work up to that," Sherlock says and I'm taken aback, but then he's smiling against my mouth and shifting, bringing one knee over and between my leg and the armrest, straddling me despite the already preposterous height difference and tipping my head back against the sofa. He grinds up against me a little and  _holy shit_ he's hard, I can feel it against my stomach and  _fuck_ I've never done this, I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that but he's kissing me and it's brilliant and-

"You're thinking," Sherlock mumbles, kissing me again and again, his hands fumbling with the hem of my T-shirt. "Stop that."

"I don't-" I say, but the rest of the sentence disappears in a haze as Sherlock runs his hands up the bare skin of my chest, his nails lightly scratching. Sherlock is rocking slightly in my lap, his breath ragged as his mouth trails down my throat, sucking and nipping and making me gasp. How is it possible that Sherlock is the dominant force here? So far I've just sat back and let him do as he wished.

Well, no time like the present for changing  _that._  I grab his hips hard and lift, heaving him up- "oh!" he cries, clutching me, wide-eyed- and tossing him down on the sofa, easing between his parted legs and coming down on top of him. His knees come up automatically, his legs going to my hips and pushing me down further, both of us groaning at the contact that seems almost painfully close despite our clothes being in the way. Sherlock's arms loop around my neck and my hands slip down between the cushions so that I'm doing a sort of push-up over him. I don't know who starts it but within seconds we're grinding against each other frantically (and I haven't done this since I was a bloody teenager, but then I haven't  _felt_ like this since I was a teenager, like there wasn't enough time or space or breath left to wait any longer), Sherlock arching his back and actually moaning underneath me, soft broken moans that make me shudder with need. We aren't even kissing anymore; I have my face pressed against the warm, damp heat of his neck and his head is thrown back, his hands scrabbling across my back. "John," he gasps, after only a few minutes, and then: " _oh_ …"

I think that's what unravels me, that tiny, whispered "oh" and the way Sherlock's body goes stiff against me, his fingernails digging into my ribs and his hips stuttering. It's the tone of surprise in his voice and something more, something that I'm too humble to call awe but which I never hear in Sherlock's voice anyway, and I did that. Me. "Oh,  _fuck,_ " I rasp, and then it's over, I'm shuddering and panting and slumping down against Sherlock's chest, completely spent. I think the last time I came in my pants I was maybe fifteen and asleep (and mortified in the morning, as I recall) but I don't even care that it's sticky and uncomfortable because Sherlock is kissing me again, a deep lazy kiss that makes me sigh with contentment.

"I have a very strong affectionate bond with you, partly chemically-induced and partly sentimental," Sherlock says softly, after a moment, "but you're heavy."

"Oh." I laugh and ease up, shimmying into the space Sherlock creates for me at the edge of the sofa. I'm still turned to face him, smiling like an idiot, but it's okay because Sherlock's got a little smile on his own face and his eyes are glittering happily. I lean forward and kiss him again, a sweet chaste kiss that seems almost out of place considering. "Sorry, love."

He laughs a little at that and sets his hand on my hip, fingers flexing. "Now what?" he asks, looking unsure for the first time all evening.

I don't know what he wants long-term but I don't want to ruin this, not yet. "The Hungry Earth?" I suggest, knowing he hasn't watched that one yet.

Sherlock's mouth twitches. "All right," he says, half-smiling, and I turn over, settling my back against him and grinning idiotically at the easy way he puts his arm around me, hand sliding up my shirt and settling on my stomach. I can tell I'm getting old, though, because Amy's not even done anything overly dramatic or stupid before I've slipped into a light and dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea why I wrote the first half of this, and I wasn't planning to write a resolution but then my muse said "yeah, no, you're writing it" so here we are. I honestly do think Sherlock would prefer Eleven. They have a lot of similarities (which isn't surprising, considering the writers and all) and also Eleven is just…great. I love him. And I'm pretty sure they name-drop Sherlock Holmes in "The Hungry Earth" which made me lol a little as I was writing this, but hey. Whatever. If characters on Doctor Who can be watching Doctor Who in the background (yes, that has happened) and the newspaper in Sherlock (TRF) can mention Arthur Conan Doyle, I can use "The Hungry Earth" in a Sherlock fanfic. So.


End file.
